


pixel affection

by scribacchina



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, FBI agent Percival Graves, Hacker Credence Barebone, Implication of Mental Illness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribacchina/pseuds/scribacchina
Summary: Credence works for Director Graves, as his on call hacker.But Mr Graves is a very demanding employer - and an even more frustrating man.





	pixel affection

**Author's Note:**

> I blacked out and wrote this in the span of three hours this afternoon. I have no explanations.
> 
> Massive thanks to Bee for betaing this! Love u gorl. 
> 
> P.S: I have no fucking clue how the FBI works.

There's thirty hours of security camera footage on Credence's laptop. Twenty seven of them incriminate a man he's never heard of, of a crime he doesn't care for. He packs the whole thing on a file and tucks it into a neat little blue-worded link.

Mr Graves always has a different email. It's useless and inconvenient, if you ask Credence - not that he'd ever tell. Five minutes after Credence sends the metaphorical package, Mr Graves writes him back:

_Good job._

_Graves_

Mr Graves’ full name is Percival Graves. Credence found out three months ago, picking through the FBI archive. Forty two years old, no family to speak of, no close relatives.

Six minutes after the original mail has been sent, Credence receives another from the bank, which informs him a significant amount of money has just been signed off to his account.

With not even a third of that, he can buy Modesty all the horses she wants. He could get her a fucking stable, for all it’s worth.

_If you have all these money, why can't we go on holiday together? Somewhere nice?_

_I can't Mo’. My job keeps me busy._

Only half true. If he asked, he's pretty sure Mr Graves wouldn't say no to a couple weeks off, even overseas. But Credence would still probably need to bring his set up with him, because accidents happen and there's always some new name to be crossed off the list.

No, that's not it.

Credence hasn't left his apartment in something of six months now. Last time it was for Modesty’s thirteenth birthday, the fifth out of the Church. He had to swallow most of his prescription just to get himself out of the door, and then some more on his way there. Public transportation is a _nightmare_.

Thankfully, it had been a private party. Him, Mo’, Jacob and Queenie. None of them had commented on Credence's slowed reflexes or his glossy glare, although Queenie had asked him if he wanted to go take a nap upstairs.

Mr Graves had skewered the NY fostering system until the family with the best report came up. “If there's an issue, call me and we can find another. But I don't think you’ll need to.”

And he hadn't. The Kowalskis were possibly the nicest people Credence ever met, straight out of a magazine. Steady marriage, they owned a bakery downtown. They were constantly sending him updates on Modesty, and inviting him over for dinner.

If they'd been just a little less genuine, a bit more suspicious of Credence's habits, he could have justified his behaviour.

Credence shuts off his laptop without answering Mr Graves’ email. He stumbles over to his bed, and slides his head under a pillow, and slowly breathes in and out, until he blinks off.

The rustling of keys jostles him awake. The lock snapping open and the door creaking, and the clacking of good shoes against cheap linoleum. Credence takes the pillow off his head and reaches for the phone on his nightstand: it's six pm. He's spent the entire afternoon sleeping.

“Christ,” Mr Graves’ says, “Would it kill you to open a window once in a while.”

“Would it kill you to knock,” Credence's voice comes in a rumble, tongue tangled. His breath smells acre, and his throat aches. He looks up at Graves, who's standing in the middle of his bedroom.

“I did,” he picks at one of Credence' shirts, hanging from the edge of his desk. “And I tried calling you. I see you were out cold.”

“What do you want?” Credence scrubs at his face, thinking maybe he can rub Mr Graves’ out of his sight. He already doesn't belong in Credence's ratty room, all fitted black suit and combed hair.

“Should I be offended?”

“_What_.”

Mr Graves scoffs, then stares at the wall behind Credence. “Tonight. We were going out.” He says, flicking his wrist and glancing at the watch. “We might still get there in a timely manner if you get your ass in gear and take a shower right now.”

Credence sits up, “I dunno. I'm not feeling well.” He had agreed on that date on a joke. He didn't think Mr Graves would take him seriously, so he'd forgot about it. He was kind of confused.

“Sure you're not,” Mr Graves is thumbing through Credence’s wardrobe, or, what of it isn't lying around the floor. “With all the money I give you you can't be bothered to buy something new? C’mon, move.”

A weight falls in Credence's belly. It's the same, every time Mr Graves is actually, physically near him: shame. He gets up, walks past him and into the bathroom. Putting a door between himself and Mr Graves helps, but not by much. He can still hear him, walking around the place.

He takes his clothes off, throws them into the sink. What is he doing out there? Looking through Credence's things? His books? His laptop? The notebooks stacked inside his bottom drawer, and the small, purple dildo he turned on once before hiding it behind his desk?

The first jet of water is ice cold, then it warms, colors Credence' skin red. He pours a whole bottle of shampoo on his head, closes his eyes and rakes through his hair. It's grown longer, curls up to his chin. Most of the times Credence forgets to wash it.

It's hard to concentrate, here, in the asphyxiating fog of the stall, naked, when Mr Graves is just outside. Credence focuses on the motion of fingers pulling at hair, scraping at scalp, rubbing at the roots on the back of his neck.

There's a knock on the door. Credence quickly shoves his head under the spray, holds his breath as the bubbles slide down his face, until the drain is clogged with a mountain of chemical snow.

“I'm done,” he says, holding a bar of vanilla scented soap under his armpits. He hears Mr Graves muffling, but can't make out what he means. Credence pats himself with a towel. He realizes he didn't bring any clean clothes with him.

“Hey,” he calls, “can you pass me a shirt, and underwear.” Shame is back to weigh his stomach down, and Credence swears he can make out its shape pressing against his navel.

The door cracks open, and and Mr Graves hands him a bundle of neatly piled fabric. Credence takes it, then frowns. “These aren't mine,” he says, glaring at the clean cut white button down and the black pants. The underwear seems familiar enough, so he wears it without a fuss.

“I had to order you some. You have nothing even remotely decent,” Mr Graves says.

Credence couldn't have been in there for more than ten minutes. Fifteen, maybe. Did Mr Graves have some personal assistant on call, ready to satisfy his every need? He wouldn't put it past the man.

“They could be a little oversized. I had to guess yours.”

He puts on the shirt, tucks it into the pants. It's not anything he would wear. It resembles what he wore to Church, he thinks, but definitely better quality. The pants fit well enough, and the shirt is a little baggy at the shoulders. He walks out of the bathroom.

Mr Graves sits on his bed - which has mysteriously been made - legs sprawled out. He greets Credence with a tight lipped smile, “Your hair is still wet.”

“Sorry.” Credence shrugs, lacing a pair of worn adidas. He takes his phone; these pants don't have pockets, which means he'll have to keep it in hand. That gives him something to busy himself with, while Mr Graves gets up.

“Fine, then. Come,” he marches out of Credence's bedroom and into the corridor. Credence hurries to shut off his computer, setting the lockdown in place. You never know.

Credence has his own set of keys, But Mr Graves locks the apartment with his, anyways. Credence wonders if that's a tactic, to remind him his control is limited and the space he inhabits isn't really ever _his_.

Mr Graves nods to a car parked on the sidewalk. It's black, and shiny, and the silvery mark on its front would mean something to Credence, if he ever cared about cars. As it stands, he can only imagine it's worth an extravagant amount of money.

“Get in,” Mr Graves says, sliding in the driver’ seat. Credence tucks himself into the leather interiors of the habitacle, feeling like he's entered the maws of a big, mechanic wolf.

He's not sure what this is. The only term that comes to mind is a date, but that would imply there was something between him and Mr Graves other than convenience and favors. That would imply something Credence doesn't like to think about.

The restaurant Mr Graves takes him to is the kind of fancy establishment Ma would have sent him to hand out pamphlets in front of. Rich people and their guilt. Except, Credence knows, very few of them have any, especially when faced with the other side of the coin.

They get spiteful, more than pitiful.

Mr Graves nudges him in, past the glass doors. At reception, a beautiful woman smiles and asks for their reservation. Credence looks down at the carpeting, while Mr Graves talks with her.

His tone is smoother and his smile easier, and Credence catches him glancing down the cut of her dress while she searches through her book.

“Graves, there you are. Right this way,” she says. Credence is back to staring at his feet, until they reach a table and Mr Graves tells him to sit down. The chair has a plush seat, but it feels sturdy. Credence is tempted to rock back and forth in it.

“Would you lighten up? Lookin like I brought you to slaughter,” Mr Graves says, waving the waiter off.

“I told you, I'm not feeling too well,” Credence whispers, opening the menu. “Can we make this quick?”

“Sure,” Mr Graves says, and his voice is back to its curt, stern baritone. Credence glances up, to gage how angry he is, but Mr Graves doesn't seem particularly upset. His eyebrows cant up while he studies the menu.

A charged silence settles over them, and Credence focuses on the conversations happening around him. There's an old couple on the table to their right arguing over if they should or shouldn't rent a yacht for their trip to Malta. The husband thinks it's just better to buy a new one.

When the waiter comes back, Credence still hasn't chosen. He hums, skimming through the foreign names and prices down the lists, before giving Mr Graves an imploring look. Mr Graves sighs.

“He’ll take the stake. And a bottle of sparkling water. Thanks,” he hands the menus off, then side eyes Credence.

“Too many options,” Credence says, gesticulating, by way of explanation.

Mr Graves hums, “I know.”

The scene is reminiscent of one of the first times him and Mr Graves had met. The place was slightly more casual, and it was lunch hour. Credence had sat uneasy in his chair, and wore his best Sunday clothes, which still made the servers frown at him.

He'd thought he was in trouble. Hacking into the university' system to get Chastity’s in hadn't been hard. You'd be surprised how many things you can do from your local library’s computer.

Then, a day later, his phone had buzzed. Credence hadn't paid it mind at first, the old thing turned on and off whenever it wanted. So he didn't see the message until later that night.

An unknown number. Someone knew what he'd done. Someone wanted to meet him.

Credence had to make careful plans to accommodate this stranger. Ma was often out of the house those days, planning the celebrations for Christmas with the rest of the Church’s council. Still, she would check up on him, at every turn of the clock. She didn't trust him to be alone. And she shouldn't have.

The first time they'd sat down to eat, the waitress mistook Mr Grave for Credence's father. He didn't correct her.

“Do you think,” Credence says, elbows propped on the table, “do you think people think I'm your son?”

Mr Graves tilts his head. “That's possible. Yeah. You're around the right age, aren't you?” He says, as if he didn't know everything there is to know about Credence. “Yeah, it could be. Why?”

He shrugs. “Just a thought.”

First time, Credence had frozen at it - but then Mr Graves had started talking, immediately, and he didn't have time to explore why that implication made him feel so uncomfortable.

It could be the fact that there couldn't be anyone more different to himself than Mr Graves. Yeah, that has to be it, Credence decides.

“They could also think you're my young boyfriend,” Mr Graves says, so casual, sipping his wine. Credence chokes on spit. “Sugar baby? Is that the word?”

“Don't say shit like that,” Credence hisses. He throws looks around, to see if any of the other patrons heard. He's reminded of how much he hates the very presence of other people, the way it stifles him. He wants to flatten against the wall.

Mr Graves chuckles, “Still a church-mouse, after all.”

“That's not it,” Credence says, defensive. No, not defensive. He's not -- like that, anymore. Credence before and Credence now are two different people, clearly divided, by a stark line. Credence has always envisioned that line being Mr Graves.

“Then what?” Mr Graves asks, chin propped on his hands. He looks amused, like a cruel little boy jumping on an ants’ nest.

Credence takes a big breath, “I don't like to be made fun of,” he says. He doesn't like to feel like an ant, especially if Mr Graves is the one doing the crushing. The conversation is shifting into a different vibe, and again Credence wonders why Mr Graves invited him out to dinner.

“Who says I was making fun of you?” He says, leaning back in his seat. Credence glares at him, tugging at a hem of the table cloth. The fine linen slides under his fingernails.

Another pause. “Maybe I was suggesting,” Mr Graves says.

Before Credence can process it, the waiter is back, and slides a plate of steak under his nose. It’s piping hot, bright red muscle and grilled fat. The smell makes Credence's mouth fill with saliva. Through the fumes of it, Credence catches a glimpse of Mr Graves’ smile.

They don't eat dessert. Mr Graves makes Credence help him finish his bottle of Pinot, and fills the rest of the night with stories about his job, anecdotes on his colleagues, and filthy jokes that make the weight in Credence's stomach rattle. Or maybe it's the stake.

The drive home is quiet, and Credence keeps his head flush to the window. It feels like his neck might crack under it if he doesn't. Mr Graves doesn't complain that he's fogging the glass, only laughs and gives him a pat on the leg. His hand lingers for a beat too long.

Mr Graves parks the car and Credence hurries to the front door. He crouches down to the mat, trying to find the keys that he _knows_ are there, they _should_ be there, why _aren't_ they there?

The lack of keys makes him extremely melancholic for some reason, and then it plummets right into sad, so of course he starts crying. Mr Graves gets out of the car, and walks up to him.

“What is it now?” He says, voice low. Credence sobs, slaps one hand against the pavement. _Keys! I can't even find my stupid keys_. He wants to say, but all the air in his lungs is wasted on hiccups and crying.

“Right. Let me help,” he says, taking something out the pocket of his jacket. It clinks together with a metallic sound, a lot of them, and Credence stares at him opening the door like its nothing. Now he can't remember why he was so distraught about keys.

Mr Graves helps him up, and then keeps holding onto him. He shuts the door behind them, and they wobble together to Credence's bedroom. Mr Graves untucks the covers on his bed, then turns to Credence, who's fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.

“Here, wait,” Mr Graves gently swats Credence's hands out of the way, undoing his buttons and preventing another hysterical episode. He peels the shirt off of Credence's torso, hangs it on a rack. “Sit down,” he says, nodding towards the bed.

Credence does just that. Mr Graves kneels in front of him, takes off his shoes one by one. Credence lays his back on the bed, while Mr Graves slides off his pants. “Thank you,” he says. That's the polite thing to do.

Mr Graves hovers somewhere above him, but in the dark, Credence can't really make out his face. His hands slide up Credence's thighs, like he did in the car, and he squirms under the touch: ticklish.

“Credence,” Mr Graves says, and his tone has the same smooth feel as when he spoke to the receptionist. Credence hums, tucks his legs up into his chest. Mr Graves is still watching him, “Credence, can I sleep here with you?”

“What? Why?” Credence is trying to find the covers, pawing at the mattress blindly. Mr Graves crouches down, and Credence feels his breath in puffs, against his cheek.

“You're very pretty, you know that? You're beautiful.” Credence hears rustling, and realizes Mr Graves is taking off his belt. The noise shouldn’t terrify him on such a an instinctual level anymore, but it does.

He blinks up at him. A car runs past his window, stereo blaring, and an explosion of yellow lights fills Credence's room for a second.

Mr Graves is very handsome. Credence knew that, in the back of his mind, since he first saw him. He knew that, when Mr Graves offered a way out for him and Modesty and Chastity, out of the Church. He knew it, when Mr Graves asked him to work for him, the same way he’d hacked in the university's site. To catch bad guys.

He knew that, when he ordered that dumb vibrator from Amazon, and then scared himself with its buzzing, and threw it at the wall.

Mr Graves lies down next to Credence, covers them both up to their heads with the blanket. He's close, too close, body giving off heat in waves. Credence’s chest tightens.

“Credence,” Mr Graves calls, arm finding his waist, pulling him closer still. Credence's leg shifts, and then he can really feel Mr Graves. It makes him sick how much he's been anticipating this moment.

There's lips against Credence's cheek, and on his forehead. Lips on his lips, humid and prying his mouth open. Mr Graves’ holds him tighter, lapping at him, and Credence can't do much but try and reciprocate.

This is the kind of thing Credence breaks into databases for, incriminating footage; some senator beating prostitutes in his office, or a CEO making deals for a trafficking ring.

Credence wonders if there's a hidden camera in his room, and some other Credence is taping Director of FBI Percival Graves molesting his drunk hacker.

Mr Graves settles over him, pushes Credence's legs open. He takes Credence's shorts down, and gives a few inspecting tugs at him. Credence bites at the blankets, hips rutting into his hand. Mr Graves shoves two fingers into his mouth, tells him to suck.

On his tongue, Credence tastes a tinge of sweat, and leather: from the steering wheel. He sucks on those fingers until Mr Graves has to pull them out.

Mr Graves re aligns his body, so that Credence sits folded at the waist, ass up. Credence jolts when the same fingers start circling his hole, cautious. Mr Graves shushes him, pinches the soft flesh of his under thigh.

“Be good,” he says, pushing one finger in. Credence kicks out a leg, gives a strangled shout. The finger keeps going, until there's no more. After a moment, it moves, stroking along the walls. The second finger starts to ease in.

“Good boy.” Mr Graves keeps pushing his fingers, in and out, and Credence feels a dull sensation building in his abdomen, breath getting shorter. The shame in his stomach starts to melt, a glacier slowly but surely dissolving.

When the fingers come out, Credence tries and grabs Mr Graves’ hand, get them back. Mr Graves laughs, scooting lower down the bed and taking off his boxer. The room is dark, and Credence can't see him. Mr Graves takes his hand, still extended, and wraps it around his cock.

It fills up Credence's palm, nice and thick, but Credence doesn't really have a reference to give judgements. He mimics what Mr Graves did to him, even in this awkward position; Mr Graves groans, a full body shudder, then comes forward.

Credence feels the head of it against himself, sliding up and down, almost peeking in but - no, then again, and -- _ah_, there, there it is. Credence’s immediate reaction is to tense up, but Mr Graves presses an open hand to his thigh and shushes him, again.

They get into a rhythm, rocking back and forth, slow, slow until it isn't: Credence feels Mr Graves slide deeper in, progressively laying more weight onto him. Credence’s breath begins to come out in short cries. He clings to Mr Graves’ shoulders.

“You're so good, letting me fuck you like this,” Mr Graves’ mouth is pressed to Credence's neck, and his voice sounds impossibly loud, “You're such a good boy.”

Mr Graves keeps rutting into him, heavy: Credence can't move an inch, can't escape it, and this knowledge makes him cry louder. He's got no choice. He thinks,_ “Too many options” -- “I know”_

He comes, clenching down on Mr Graves. He pistons his hips one more time, buried inside, and then sighs. Credence feels it, wet, and it drives one last jolt out of him. His thighs fall on either side of Mr Graves’ waist, with no strength to support them.

They let each other go, reluctantly, and Mr Graves slithers off of him. He drags the blanket down, and Credence gulps the air like a drowning man. He falls asleep without telling Mr Graves, _I know your name_.

The next morning, Credence receives another email by the bank. A significant sum of money has been signed off to his account.


End file.
